A Dark Friday Poem

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Jesus was tortured on Friday
On Friday a purple robe was ripped from his bloodied shoulders.
He died on Friday at noon.
God turned away.
Saturday was nothing but silence,
No answered prayers, no hope.
Just pure.
Devastating.
Silence.
Whole Psalms were written on Fridays and Saturdays.
Jacob on the back of the river, wrestling with God in the darkest hour.
Isaiah mourned the loss of his friend, King Uzziah.
Moses fled to the wilderness when the conflict
between his blood
and his privilege
overwhelmed him.
David was hunted by Saul.
He cried out, “My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?”
His words echo through Jesus and through the ages.
Job said through gritted teeth, “Though He slay me, I will trust in Him.”
The crown of thorns that King Jesus wore
Shows that his subjects are the pierced
The broken,
The strung up and strung out.
The tempest tossed are His tribe.
His tears mingle with our own
in the wilderness.
On Sunday, from death comes life.
Jesus lives!
He walks right out of that tomb.
On Sunday we believe in miracles.
On Sunday – our hope is restored.

One doesn’t go straight from Friday at noon

to Sunday morning.
No, it is the nature of the seasons of life and faith
that there is,
a time to weep
and a time to laugh.
A time to mourn
and a time to dance.
A time to scatter stones,
And a time to gather them together.
The Friday of sheer horrifying pain.
The Saturday of silence.
Our Sunday of glorious vibrant LIFE.

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